


dd (drunk dial)

by soulofme



Category: Easy Love - Fandom
Genre: Drunken Confessions, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 03:19:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13872009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: I'm thinking 'bout you boy 'cause I need to.





	dd (drunk dial)

**Author's Note:**

> title from the bevy maco song of the same name

Ace is not difficult to find.

He’s seated behind the bar, elbows on the counter in front of him, head hanging low between his shoulders. There’s a glass in front of him, bleeding condensation onto the wood beneath it. Ace doesn’t touch it. His phone is in his hand, and he taps it against the counter at slow, steady intervals.

Nick slides into the seat beside him. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, a train of words and sentiments that refuse to unravel from each other. He settles for silence, and doesn’t dare touch Ace before he begins to speak.

“C’mon,” he says. He wants to reach for Ace’s elbow, to tug him to his feet and pull him along, but somehow that feels far too intimate. He shouldn’t be here.

Ace stands then, all loose-limbed and liquid bones, and it’s only then that Nick realizes he doesn’t recognize him. The man before him is nothing but a shell of his former self, drowning in the memory of a past he can no longer reach.

Nick turns away from the sight. He shelves it away in a hidden compartment of his mind, tells himself he doesn’t need to understand it now. He doesn’t need to understand any of this right now. He has to get Ace home.

They stumble out of the bar, side by side. Nick hails a cab and they crowd into the back seat. Ace is close enough that Nick can smell his cologne, something musky and dark. It smells like the one Nick had bought him for his birthday, and the thought that Ace hasn’t changed his smell after so many years makes him feel sick.

Ace leans back after telling the cab driver his address. His head thumps against the seat solidly. It’s too dark to see what he’s looking at, but Nick hopes it’s something more beautiful than the ceiling of their cab.

The cab driver has the radio on low. Nick can’t recognize the song, but there’s something familiar about it. Ace stirs at his side, twisting his head towards the window, but Nick doesn’t look at him. He pretends he can’t see him, even as their thighs press together and warmth bleeds through his jeans.

“Do you remember?” Ace says then.

The song climbs into Nick’s ears and settles there. It feels him with regret, with pain and hurt and all these feelings he swore he’d never have again. He sees grainy images of himself, younger, dumber, naïve and innocent. He sees Ace, stronger, complete, something wonderful and amazing he thought he couldn’t touch.

Ace touches him then, a fleeting brush of fingertips against the sensitive inside of his wrist, and Nick’s stomach lurches violently. He jerks away, eyes burning with something fierce, and imagines setting fire to every memory he has of Ace, watching as their life together burns down into ashes.

The song— _their song_ —fades into the background.

“I don’t,” he says. He can feel more than see Ace’s head swivel towards him. He inhales, a sharp, quick breath that gets stuck somewhere in his throat. “I don’t remember a goddamn thing.”

It’s not supposed to sound so bitter, so wounded, and Nick wishes he could take it back. Take back this car ride, the bar, Ace’s drunken voice filtering through his speakers at two in the fucking morning.

But he can’t. Damn it, he _can’t_.

Nick grinds his teeth together hard enough to hurt and presses himself against the door. It digs into his side, but it offers him a distraction. Ace’s cologne feels like it’s burning his nostrils.

Ace doesn’t say anything else to him. He leans his head back against the seat again and drums his fingers against his stomach. Nick watches him until that nauseous feeling swells up inside him again.

The cab rolls to a stop. Blinking rapidly, Nick scrambles out of the car. He leaves the door open behind him, even though he’s tempted to slam it in Ace’s face. He tosses a wad of cash at the driver, too exhausted to count, and tells him to keep the change.

Nick doesn’t wait for Ace. He turns on his heel and starts to walk away, the cool, August breeze slithering between his wrist and the sleeve of his thin shirt. Behind him, he can faintly hear Ace’s footsteps, heavy and sluggish on the sidewalk.

“Nick,” he calls. He sounds almost desperate. “Wait a sec.”

“Goodnight, Ace,” Nick replies, harsh, even, mere seconds from falling apart.

“No—hey, would you wait one _goddamn second_!”

He stops then. Abruptly, apparently, since Ace crashes into his back. Nick whirls around lightening fast and shoves him, shoves him until he has Ace backed up against the building behind them.

“What the fuck do you want?” he asks. He tries to sound threatening, like Ace is wasting his precious time, but it doesn’t work. Nick’s too tired to be angry. He has too much fucking time of his hands these days.

“Are you mad at me?” Ace asks instead. He sounds soft, horrifically vulnerable. The streetlamp above them casts long, jagged shadows across him, shadows that make his face look harsher than usual.

Nick takes a moment then, analyzing their position. Him, hands clenched around Ace’s flimsy white tee-shirt, grinding his teeth into dust, blood pulsing in his ears. Ace, shoved back against the wall, staring at him like a goddamn lost puppy, drunk out of his mind.

“No,” he says, and he doesn’t elaborate. He hates himself, not Ace, but he can’t admit that. Not now. Not ever.

Ace deflates then, shoulders dragging against the brick wall behind him, and Nick releases him. His fingers cramp, and he wiggles them to regain some sort of feeling.

Ace reaches up to drag a hand along the side of his face. He pushes himself off of the wall and looks at Nick thoughtfully.

“Do you want to come up?” Ace asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

Nick doesn’t know why he says _yes_. He doesn’t know why he and Ace climb three flights of stairs, or why Ace leads him into his shitty, shoebox apartment, or why he sits on the couch while Ace disappears into the kitchen.

He’s thinking about leaving when Ace places a cup of tea in front of it. Steam rises from it thickly, clouding the air and sending the scent of cinnamon up to his nostrils. Nick traces his pinky around the rim of the mug but doesn’t take a sip.

Ace settles into the empty space beside him and turns the TV on. An old movie plays, something black and white and silent, and Nick stares down at his hands. They’re trembling. With what, he doesn’t know, but he presses them down against his thighs.

“Why did you call me?” Nick asks. It feels too heavy, too intimate, but he has to know.

Ace stiffens from beside him, eyes glued to the screen in front of them.

“I don’t know,” he says. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that it’s a goddamn lie. Nick laughs cruelly.

“Yes you do.”

Ace closes his eyes. Nick watches as the light of the television glows white, making Ace’s tanned skin look paler than usual. It’s only then that he’s able to make out the dark bags taking up residence beneath Ace’s eyes. His face looks thinner, all harsh angles and sharp bones where he used to have curved edges and an almost child-like softness to him.

When Ace opens his eyes, he doesn’t look at Nick. He doesn’t appear to be looking at anything in particular, really.

“You’re right. I do.”

He waits impatiently for Ace to elaborate, feeling the seconds tick by at a maddening pace. Finally, he scoffs to himself.

“You haven’t changed,” Nick says. “You’re still the same goddamn coward.”

“I love you.”

The words feel like a knife to the heart. Nick bites down onto his tongue, hard enough that he tastes blood, and his mind goes blank. It’s not the words themselves that get him. It’s the way they make him feel. Suddenly, he’s seventeen years old again, sitting beneath the bleachers at school, falling in love with the boy who taught him how to kiss.

 “What the fuck.”

“Nick—”

“No, what the _fuck_!”

Nick scrambles to his feet, hands wound tight in his hair. He paces back and forth in front of the couch, feeling Ace’s piercing gaze sinking through his clothes and getting lodged in his skin. He stops suddenly, shaking with anger, with fear, with _hurt_ , and tries to forget those words.

It’s a terrifying experience, a sudden rush of nostalgia that races up his spine and tangles icy fingers in his hair.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Nick asks then. He’s tired, so fucking _tired_ , and he sinks down onto his knees. The coffee table at his back seems to be the only thing keeping him upright, and he takes a deep breath in. In and out, over and over, until his head feels somewhat right again.

“I was scared,” Ace answers. It’s the first direct answer of the night. “I was scared out of my goddamn mind, and I hurt you.”

“Yeah,” Nick says “Yeah, you fucking did. But that was years ago. I’ve moved on. Why can’t _you_?”

“You were the best thing I ever had,” Ace says. It sounds rehearsed, like it’s a line from a movie script, and Nick wants to tell him to stop acting for one _goddamn minute_.

But Ace isn’t acting right now. Nick can tell from the honest, open expression on his face, from intensity of his eyes, from the way he sits ramrod straight before him.

“What the hell happened to us?” Ace continues. He doesn’t sound drunk, not now, but Nick can’t help but wonder if he’ll remember any of this in the morning.

“We grew up,” Nick whispers. He remembers that day like it was yesterday. He remembers standing on Ace’s porch, seeing a boy grow into a man, and realizing that they couldn’t do this. That things were changing, that they had to move on, that nothing lasts forever.

“I wanted you,” Ace says. He pauses, laughing to himself. It’s a bitter little sound, a sound that echoes in Nick’s ears for far too long. “I always want you.”

“You were my first,” Nick says. He doesn’t know why he’s feeding into this, why he’s letting the memories come rushing to the forefront of his mind, but he closes his eyes and lets them wash over him. “My first kiss, my first love, my first…”

 _Everything_.

The word hangs in the air, unspoken but understood, and Nick feels his eyes slowly open. He searches Ace’s face, waiting for him to brush it off, to dismiss it, but he doesn’t. He nods to himself, seemingly accepting, and scoots forward on the couch. They’re close to each other now, close enough that Nick smells whiskey and cologne and sweat.

“I’m sorry,” Ace says, raw and vulnerable. “I’m so fucking _sorry_.”

Nick wants to ignore it, wants to pretend that Ace is just drunkenly babbling. But he knows that’s now what this is. Ace means it, all of it, and he’d be a fool to think it isn’t true.

“I know,” he says. “I know. I’m sorry too.”

Ace exhales then, sharp and relieved, and Nick stands up. Ace watches him cautiously, looking ridiculously small from this angle.

“Are you leaving?” he asks. There’s longing in his eyes, heavy and thick, and Nick thinks he could get drunk on it. Drunk on the way Ace looks at him, on the way he still manages to make him feel, on the feeling of being _loved_.

“Do you want me to?” Nick asks. Ace shakes his head firmly, and it’s clear that he wants it, wants _him_.

And so, he stays.


End file.
